And Therewithal I Cut My Hair
by Emotistic Optimistic
Summary: His hair really isn't all that special, and yet, it was an intrinsic part of him, something he'd been proud of and adored. But he'd sold his soul to the ice long ago, and if he wanted to push forward, he needed to change. Even if it hurt.


Haircuts are surprisingly terrifying.

For once, Victor wishes he had made one of his usual spur of the moment decisions. Waltzing into the nearest salon and announcing he wanted short hair would have been much more painless. But showing up to the World Championship with his hair suddenly cut short is much more his style. Plus, silly as it was, it gave him time to say goodbye.

So, tucked up in his hotel room in Turin, he brushes his hair slowly, watching the silvery strands pass through the bristles. Really, this is one of his few practical decisions. After all, his hair knots easily. He'd save so much time in the shower. And, if he's anything like his father, his hair would start thinning out early anyway, so it'd hardly be attractive to keep it long then.

Plus…it really was an inevitability with his chosen field. He'd made himself by playing with the line between feminine and masculine. It had been fun, but more importantly, it _surprised_ people. It made them talk, and he had loved every bit of it. But, of course, that had to end.

"Don't get used to this style," Yakov warned told him after he'd won gold after his second Grand Prix Final. "You've already grown eight centimeters; this won't work for much longer."

"Good, I'm already getting bored of it," Victor had laughed in response.

It wasn't true, but it was easier for him to say. He knew that his sudden jump in height was a sign of changes to come. His now-trademark ethereal style wouldn't work with broad shoulders and a solid frame. Despite Yakov's constant despairing over his carelessness, Victor was well-aware of when it was time to change.

And more than that, the whispers and gasps at his performance had seemed quieter, and the articles were markedly less enthusiastic about that year's program. He _could_ win for another year with technicality alone, but without that element of surprise, would it be worth it?

No. He'd rather die.

He lets out a small huff as he starts to braid his hair. He loops the hair around itself loosely, almost carelessly. He does the same thing whenever he starts choreographing, the easy, repetitive movement keeping him focused as he visualizes the routine in his head. It's also an excellent method for calming nerves on the rare occasion he gets anxious. It doesn't do much for him now, though.

His hair had survived his transformation from boy to man, and he used it to his advantage. Once used to skating with a new body, he set his trajectory to medieval romance. For one season, he was an errant knight, with a short program that was a battle for love and a free skate showing his tragic, untimely death. The next, he was a prince; his short program was a joyful coronation and his free skate presented him as a fierce, tyrannical ruler.

It had been great fun, and this year had been equally fun with a fairy tale theme (His free skate costume even had a swan wing arm-piece with _real feathers!_ ). His executions had been flawless all the way to the Grand Prix Final, and he was riding high on another great season.

But it just took one article to send everything crashing down.

 **Grand Prix Final results: Nikiforov Defends Title, Zhou Takes Gold**

 _This year's Grand Prix of Figure Skating has come to a close,_  
 _featuring several new faces standing on the podium this year:_  
 _most notably China's Zhou Chunhua, who took gold in the ladies' event._  
 _In the men's event, however, Victor Nikiforov once again reigns_  
 _supreme after a typically excellent performance._

"Typically excellent."

 _Typical._

The very _thought_ cut through Victor like a knife. It was time to re-calibrate. So, the moment he was back in St. Petersburg, he threw himself into planning a completely new program for the World Championship. That alone would be surprising; it always caused a stir when a skater switched programs mid-season. Why, the fuss it had caused when he was eighteen had…

Oh. Right. He'd already used this tactic. It'd been (to him) a cheap trick to cover up his discomfort at managing his new build, but people were still talking about it to this day. So a new program wouldn't be enough. He needed something more. He needed to work from the ground up.

Really, he needed to build a whole new Victor Nikiforov.

So he threw out his softness, cast aside the romance. This new program was all sharp, quick moves and positively dripping with aggression and machismo. He was a young man in his prime; it was about time he played up that masculine sex appeal.

The routines had come to him with surprising ease, but something had been off. His step sequences were solid, and his jumps, of course, were perfect. But something was keeping him from fulling committing to this new Victor. Something about him was still soft. But _what?_

Later, to try and figure out this mystery, he watched a recording of the programs. His eyes were immediately drawn to the soft wave of silver that glided after him with each turn.

 _Oh._

He unbraids his hair quickly and combs his fingers through it. It's very fine and tremendously soft; the few people who have had honor of touching it have always told him that it was nearly like water. He wraps one strand around a finger, admiring the way it glints in the light.

The appointment had been made the moment the plane had landed. He'd go to the salon, and then straight to the Palavela for the competition. That way, there was no way for him to back out and, more importantly, no way for anyone to see him before the warm up.

That'll make some excitement, he knows, but he can't help but worry. When was the last time his hair had been short? It must have been when he was a novice…at twelve, maybe? Short hair might not suit him. He might even look hideous.

He makes a face as he braids a smaller section of hair. He knows he's forcing himself to worry about his looks. It's easier to be vain than to address his messier, more complicated concerns.

The honest truth is that he loves his long hair. He loves playing with it, loves the comforting, cape-like weight over his shoulders, loves every bit of it. And, as he continuously changed himself for the public, his hair had been constant. It was the one true signifier that he was still the same Victor Nikiforov that he had been as a starry-eyed sixteen-year-old making his senior debut.

That was why it had to go.

Years ago, before the divorce, Yakov had brought Lilia Baranovskaya—former prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Ballet—to coach him in ballet. She'd told him he'd only be strong if he could continuously be reborn, killing his past self as many times as necessary to please the fickle audience he was performing for. Victor had merely laughed in reply.

"That's fine. I'm just as fickle," he'd said, because it was easier to say that than to address his slavish devotion to his art. His soul had belonged to the ice the moment he'd touched a skate to it. He had been willing to give anything to continue skating.

Often, reporters would ask him about the sacrifices he'd made in order to get so far at such a young age. Didn't he miss going to school? When had he last seen his family? Did he ever even have time to go out and make friends like most teenagers?

He always had trouble with these questions, because yes, he didn't see his family often; yes, he spent most days just skating to the point of exhaustion before collapsing next to Makkachin; yes, he didn't have much in the way of friends. But those things weren't _sacrifices._ That was the cost of doing what he loved.

He fiddles with the end of the little braid, thoughtfully brushing the end of it against his cheek. This, though, is different. Cutting his hair won't affect his jumps or his practices. It's something that he really doesn't want to do and, technically, doesn't have to do. And yet, if he doesn't, then he's all but given up on his skating.

For the first time, it feels like his craft is taking something precious from him. And it _hurts._

But, when his alarm goes off to remind him of his appointment, he calmly gets to his feet. He pulls his fingers through the braid, and stops, just for one moment, in front of the room's mirror. He sears the image of _this_ Victor Nikiforov, the one that had existed since his debut, into his brain.

Because this Victor will die the moment he walks out the door. And despite the mourning, despite the pain, it's a very necessary death.

Because if this Victor doesn't die, then what is there to live for?

* * *

He _hates_ his haircut.

It's no fault of the stylist. It's quite a flattering style, and the rest of the stylists in the salon—who, despite his limited Italian, he knew had been whispering to each other about that beautiful young foreigner—call out "Bellissimo!" and "Handsome man!" as the cape is drawn off. He manages a weak smile, trying to ignore the way his throat tightens and his eyes sting as his stylist brushes off the few long strands of silver on his shoulders.

As he walks toward Palavela, he draws his hood over his head—half to keep the surprise hidden and half to combat the alien feeling of having his neck exposed. It won't do to look as bad as he feels, so, once he steps onto the ice for practice, he throws back his hood and gives the most carefree smile he can manage before practicing his routine. A weight lifts from his chest as he hears whispers and gasps around the rink. It doesn't completely take away the sting from losing a part of himself, no. But they _are_ surprised, so it wasn't a complete waste, it seems.

That night, after a very successful Short Program, he easily dismisses invitations out, citing exhaustion. And it was true. Aside from the mental stress of cutting his hair and the physical exhaustion after his skate, he had been hounded by the press the minute he left the kiss and cry, with the first question from nearly all of them being "Was there any significance in cutting your hair?"

He laughed, as he always did. Then he simply said that he was tired of his hair getting in the way, because it was easier to say than the truth.

So he sits on his bed, running his hand idly over his bare neck, fingers brushing the cropped hair on the nape and trying to get used to it. He smiles to himself as he reads the articles.

 _"In a shocking twist, Nikiforov not only changed his routine, but apparently his whole persona as well."_

 _"_ _Ice Skating Legend Nikiforov Powerful and Masculine at World Championship!"_

 _"Could we be looking at a new Victor Nikiforov?"_

One day, he won't be able to surprise anyone anymore. He doesn't know what he'll do then, but it doesn't really matter, not yet.

For now, while he could, he would die and be reborn as many times as he needed to. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much he didn't want to, he would do _whatever_ it took to keep his audience intrigued.

It was the only way he could survive doing what he loved.


End file.
